


Little Cracks that Escalate

by MatildaSwan



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Behind the Scenes, Explicit Language, F/M, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts with Eastbourne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Cracks that Escalate

**Author's Note:**

> ttoi kinkmeme: Three hugs someone gave Nicola when she really needed them, and one hug she gave to someone else when he/she really needed it

She shut the door behind them, click of her heels echoing around the tiles. Nicola was so close to snapping she barely registered the look on Malcolm’s face, just slumped against the sink, resting her back on the ceramic and stared at the ground. She needed this fixed and she needed it now. That was Malcolm’s job; it was his fault anyway!

“Get rid of her.”

So caught up with containing the hurricane of panic raging in her head, Nicola didn’t notice Malcolm stepping closer until his shoes were beside hers. She looked up through thick lashes, anxiety slowly ebbing into uncertainty as he stared her dead in the eye; resting his hands on her elbows, stroking her arms through her jacket.

“Okay,” voice softer than she’d ever heard it. “Go out there, we say our good byes,” she nodded, breaking eye contact. Malcolm’s fingers stopped drawing patterns on her arms and tangled themselves in her hair, bringing her back to eye level with him. “And we’ll get Glenn to do the fucking desert burial,” his nails felt wonderful on her scalp. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” she leant forward and rested her head on his chest, feeling his fingers slip through her hair and down her neck. She nodded into his shirt, too flustered to care about the consequences.

“You,” fingers ghosting over her back, “just try to compose yourself.” Whatever was going on was doing wonders for her anxiety levels. She thought she felt his breath on her scalp as she listened to his heartbeat with her fringe. “Okay?”

“Okay,” stepping out of his hold and through the door, plastering on a smile without a backwards glance.

*

 _Fuck_ , she was exhausted.

She’d been running head first from one catastrophe to another for the better part of the week. The shit storms of misplace policies and in house fighting had subsided, but the water was still choppy and Nicola had barley gotten a chance to catch her breath, what with the ton of paperwork she still had to process. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, barely slept since Tuesday: given James was pestering her about the kid’s plans for the weekend she assumed that was a long time ago.

She was sure she had lost brain function. She’d read the same sentence of the bloody policy review in her hand over and over again for the past five minutes: case and point. Ollie had dropped the bloody thing on her desk before he left for the night, conveying strict instructions to read it right now and not leave till she’d finished. Fucking Julius. Apparently it was important for the continued existence of humanity. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t understand what ‘relinquish the means through which extremities are conceived’ actually meant, let alone in relation to student statistics. She honestly didn’t even care; she just wanted to go home.

Her back ached, her eyes burnt; she was sure she would faint if she stood up and she had lost most of her communicative skills sometime after Terri’s lunch break. All she’d been able to manage since then were a few non comitial grunts whenever anyone asked if she wanted more coffee, and the occasional ‘fuck off’ when someone knocked on her door.

Like just then, except the knocker hadn’t paid her expletives much attention.

“Jesus, you look terrible,” floated in from the door frame, tone something close to concern. Which was strange, Nicola hadn’t thought Malcolm possessed the ability to care.

Nicola flopped against the back of her chair with a sign and resigned smile. “What is it, Malcolm?” too exhausted to bother following his bait.

“Oh, well, you know. Was in the area, knew you’d had a rough week. Came to see if you were okay? And that policy shit, don’t worry about it. Just fuck off home, there’s a car waiting. Deal with it later, yeah?”

She was hearing things now. The stress of the job had gotten to her and she’d cracked; she had actually gone mental. She had properly lost the entire fucking plot. She could have sworn Malcolm had just said something empathetic. Which was totally impossible: he wasn’t human, but it didn’t look like he was joking. He’d even picked up her bag and was holding it out to her. She opened her mouth to question him, but thought better of it and bit her tongue.

She threw on her coat, walking towards Malcolm with a smile before things went a bit fuzzy. Her vision flittering with grey spots, her hearing tingled and her knees buckled. She flailed wildly, blind and deaf and barely aware of what her body was doing as it fell towards the ground. Until a pair of hands caught her hips and righted her; strong grip holding her steady until her vision came back a few second later.

She’d had faints in the past, not serious; mostly just her blood sugar levels righting themselves. She’d never come out of one with someone stroking her hair before, or whispering in her ears. It was a nice change to face planting the floor. She shifted, getting her feet flat on the carpet again, and realised the arms holding her against Malcolm’s chest hadn’t let go, hadn’t even loosened their grip.

“Hey, you alright?” looking down at her with something she told herself was professional concern. Nicola looked up, blinking furiously through the blurriness and nodded.

“Just a long day,” extracting herself from his embrace. “Thanks for catching me,” impulse letting her press her lips to his cheek before flying out the door.

*

“You fucker, Malcolm!” she raced towards the door, desperate to get out of there and find somewhere to cry.

She was so close to completely losing it, right there in the corridor of Number 10. Actually have a meltdown in public. Screaming and crying and curled up in a ball, sobbing spit in plain view of every member of staff at the home of British politics; followed by a possible stabbing of Malcolm Tucker’s face.

In the corner of her conscious she heard him slouch against his door frame, and knew he was smirking. At a job well done, at her, at his own left bollock for all she knew or cared. She could see him the back of her mind, smarmy little prick, and something snapped. She turned, coat flapping behind her and strode back towards Malcolm, who was indeed smirking. Until he caught the look on her face: fury and panic and murderous intent.

She smashed into him, her fists colliding with his chest, force pushing him back into his office. She dropped her bag and flicked her foot out behind her, kicking the door shut with a slam. She bored down on him, forcing him back towards his desk.

“How fucking dare you, Malcolm!” anxiety bleeding off into rage. “How _fucking_ dare you! That job wasn’t just my career, it wasn’t just about me. That was my fucking _family_ and you had to get fucking involved,” she was shouting and flailing; if she was lucky would end up breaking his nose. “You despicable human being, you’re deplorable, you’re fucking toxic! No wonder there isn’t anyone waiting for you when you get home!” She could see him gearing up for a counter attack. “And don’t even _try_ to defend your position, or tell me to calm down! I don’t give a fuck what passes for logic in that minced up cavity you have between your ears, and I don’t give a fuck if anyone can hear us!” She felt her anger solidify, fall in on itself: start to hum rather than scream. “You ever fucking pull something like that again, Malcolm Tucker, and I swear to God you will _fucking_ regret it,” droplets of spit flying through the millimetres of space between them as she hissed in his face.

Nicola pulled away, shoving his shoulders as she stepped back; daring him to try her again. She was prepared for another one of his rants, another example of his tyranny. She was prepared to be screamed at, shouted at and abused. She seriously doubted he would get violent, but everyone had their buttons, and she’d just pressed a lot of them. She was ready for what ever he had to the throw at her.

“I’m sorry,” whispered in the now so silent room, barely audible over the flurry of movement outside Malcolm’s office.

She wasn’t ready for that.

Nicola gaped, mind whirling to a stand still; dulled with shock and disbelief until the day caught up to her. Malcolm and his bullshit: the start to the fucking day, and now a fucking election. James and his ‘I told you so’ face she _knew_ was waiting for her when she said they weren’t moving. The kids and their faces. They were looking forward to America; had been so excited when she’d mentioned it. Ella had clapped and Katie had danced around the house of an hour. _Fuck._

Nicola slumped against a filing cabinet, sliding down till she sagged onto the floor, completely exhausted. All the vibrancy and fire burning in her a moment ago had smothered out. The world didn’t make any fucking sense anymore. She stared at the floor, noting the grain in the carpet before her vision blurring with tears, milling and multiplying till she simply broke. On the floor of Malcolm’s office, inside the walls of Number 10. Hands over her face, whole body shaking; visibly wracked with grief as sobs escaped.

A pair of knees knelt down beside her: a pair of arms gathered her up, pulling her sideways into the crook of his neck. She could smelt his cologne, felt the heat of his body and the softness of his fleece on her cheek. His breath puffed against her skin, “I’m sorry, Nicola.”

She cried harder, he tightened his grip, and the general election was called without them.

*

Nicola always hated Malcolm’s office at night; the walls seemed to seethe when no one was around. Sometimes she wondered if he actually had a home; he always seemed to be about whenever she needed him after hours. She scowled at the wallpaper as she walked along the corridor, knocking on his door and opening it without waiting for a response, and paused in the doorway.

Malcolm was slumped on his lounge; mostly empty bottle of scotch sitting within arms length. Given the vacant expression on Malcolm’s face, it was safe to assume it had started out full. His phone was beeping on the table, but he wasn’t answering it; wasn’t even acknowledging the light flickering in the dimness. Something was seriously wrong.

“Malcolm, what’s going on?” She walked around the coffee table and sat by his elbow; papers she needed signed dropped on the floor and forgotten. “You look worse than the time someone sicked on your favourite suit at that policy launch.”

She’d hoped for a laugh; he didn’t even bother looking at her. Just stared at the label four feet in front of him and spoke into the room. “It’s fucked, the party’s fucked,” downtrodden and dejected, as if they explained everything. He lent forward, arm outstretched to grab the whisky, overbalanced and ended up with his head in Nicola’s lap. He sagged, limbs flopping into mattress and material. That should have felt strange, shocking even; Malcolm’s face by the hem of her skirt. She just ran her fingers through his hair as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Tom’s resigning. He’s calling it quits, like ever other fucking spineless shit in this fucking deadbeat party.” She felt his breath on her knees, “it’s just fucking rats fleeing a sinking shit now.”

Nicola lent forward and grabbed the bottle, taking a swig as she processed and shuffled further back into the lounge. She rested her hand on his shoulder as they sat in silence, rubbing her thumb along the seam of his shirt; watching the side of Malcolm’s head as moments ticking into minutes and he wallowed.

“Except you,” mumbled into her skirt, twisting to finally look at her. “You haven’t left.” Nicola could see a tiny spark of life flittering in his eyes; that gleam he got when solving jigsaw puzzles in him mind. He sat up fully. "Do you want Leader?”

She laughed; a harsh bark that melted into the room. Malcolm crinkled his brow, forehead curving into a ‘u’; watching as she dropped the bottle back on the table. “No, really. I can make you leader.”

Nicola sobered, pausing for a moment. She had always wondered what her reaction would be, if someone ever did eventually get around to finally asking her to run the party. She often imagined a phone call, late at night; a formal invitation, sombre and serious. Or a gathering held specifically in her honour. In her mind it was all extremely dignified: she knew the reality would be less so. Nicola knew she was more likely to shriek and jump on the furniture and flail so much she’d punch someone in the face and apologise profusely and snog whoever had asked her: generally make a fool of herself.

She shook her head: brutally honest with herself for the first time in years. “No, I don’t want it.”

She lent over and kissed him anyway.


End file.
